


fly on the wall

by crispycrumblycrust



Category: Holby City
Genre: Asexual Character, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, my ancestors would turn in their graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispycrumblycrust/pseuds/crispycrumblycrust
Summary: Henrik discovers something that’s better than dark chocolate melting in his mouth.





	fly on the wall

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no excuses anymore, this nerd squad has wrecked me and I’ve officially become a tube man.

He should open a window. The fresh air will clear his mind and lower the temperature of the room. Next time, he shouldn't wear the extra shirt under his sweater.  _If_ there will be a next time. Their sweat soaked skin, the flush on her cheeks as Roxanna recovers and John staring at her with eyes half closed, tell him something different. 

This clashed with that one  time he came home earlier, wanting to surprise them. He froze when he heard Roxanna. “John, wait. Henrik will be home soon.” His answer, “I just got off the phone with Henrik. We have  _at least_ half an hour,” made him swallow loudly. 

He felt like a husband finding his wife cheating on another man. The noises and the banging masked his own clumsy retreat. He drove for an hour, going nowhere in particular. Roxanna cursing as he'd never heard before played on repeat in his mind. His father's voice taunted him. _You should never lie, Henrik._

He'd learned his lesson: no more surprises, always knock, even when the door was open.

In hindsight, Henrik should have expected this. Nothing suspicious happens when he's close. But they're passionate. Both thrive on touch. Of course, a part of him knows what happens out of sight but there's a difference between rationalizing it and actually stumbling across it.

Perhaps they're still holding back, not used to having a spectator sitting close by. Perhaps they’re finished. Or perhaps they’re waiting for him to leave so they can...continue.

Henrik rests his elbows on the armrests, his gaze drifting to the wall. He feels oddly excluded, despite the any variants of 'are you all right'. She's doing it again, mouthing it to him. He can only nod stiffly, once.

He reminds himself that he’s only observing them, but a familiar numbness weighs him down. As if he doesn’t belong here, not really.

He blinks when Roxanna nudges John. She beckons him closer and whispers something in his ear. John chuckles, gives a quick, but loud peck on her lips. Henrik hopes they're not making fun of him. It's one thing hearing rumors and whispers in the hospital, it's another thing entirely seeing people he cares about deeply muttering about him. His mind swirls around possible options: they’re regretting this, they don’t want him here, not really. Perhaps he should...leave them, give them privacy.

This has gotten out of control.

What Henrik _meant_ to say, a week ago, was that they shouldn’t feel the need to hold themselves back in his presence. In any way. What they apparently heard was something else entirely. 

He should have seen the signs. Several times he caught John and Roxanna talking softly, heads close to each other. They threw looks his way when they thought his attention was elsewhere, their expression twisted in focus, as if figuring out a solution to a complicated problem.

Today, his plan was to make them breakfast before their shift. But it wasn't the alarm that woke him, but Roxanna leaning over him. “Sorry,” she said, “didn't mean to wake you.”

In his peripheral view, he saw John snatching a piece of paper from the bedside table, crumpling it up and shoving it in his pocket. “We just wanted to say _take it easy_ ,” she said, distracting his confusion with a kiss on the cheek. “We'll see you soon.”

John was a blur lingering at the door, but the intensity of his stare hit him like the end of a marathon surgery. Before he could say something – a greeting, a goodbye, a simple _John –_ before he could grab his spectacles, he closed the door softly behind him.

What  _should_ have been a quiet Sunday, tidying up Roxanna's side of their closets, making a new list of running music for John, changed when they returned after lunch. They swapped their shift without his knowledge.

John commandeered the kitchen, denied him access, while Roxanna lured him the couch and joined him. She soon fell asleep, restless limbs poking him. Henrik couldn't leave, not without waking her – not that he wanted to. He read a novel while listening to her snores.

After a delicious dinner Roxanna lead him up the stairs, his hand in hers – warm, dry and steady. John walked close behind him, his gaze burning his back.

It was only then that he felt unsure, conflicted. He felt the same way when he had stumbled across a sketchbook of John, filled with half-finished sketches of them. He saw himself: his back, his profile, or lurking in the shadows. A touch of mystery, loneliness and sadness was always present in the pages.

Roxanna was beautifully drawn, with expressive eyes and soft, perfect hair. She was laughing in one sketch, the same way she always made them laugh. On the next page, she showed a certain expression that he hadn't seen.

Until today.

He swallows loudly, hasn’t realized he’s slowly rising from his armchair. She turns her face, stares at him, eyes wide open. John tenses, grabs a hold of her shoulder. It’s a far cry from the casual way he leaned against the door while Roxanna repeated, “We can stop at any time, just say the word. It’s your call.”

John hasn’t said a word since they're here. The soft, “It’s good to broaden your horizon,” echoes in his mind. Henrik  slowly sits back, tries to smile at Roxanna. 

She smiles back. John remains tense. She rests a hand atop his. When his grip remains firm she kisses him. Softly at first, like a pair of lovers sharing their first kiss after the third date. But then someone deepens the kiss. Henrik thinks it’s John. Between the three of them, he’s always been the most comfortable with touch, thrives on it. His hand slides up, cupping her cheek. He tilts her head. Henrik sees that Roxanna is enjoying this as much as he likes to watch people kiss.

He doesn't like to kiss. He isn't talking about returning Roxanna's signature peck on the cheek or kisses on John's knuckles. No, he means John pushing him against the nearest solid and flat surface – usually a wall or a door, but one time he lost his footing and fell atop a table. His lips press against his, hands needy and insistent, like an overeager officer performing a strip search. His tongue always, _always_ slips in. 

Henrik stops him too late, and every time fights the urge to fish out his handkerchief and clean his mouth. The glare flashing behind his spectacles always softens when he sees the disappointment on his face. “I am sorry, John.” I am _sorry_ , as if Henrik _’s_ the one that has kissed John. His apology never chases away the hurt in his eyes, the same way his explanations never win against his stubborn mind and John’s refusal to listen to him. He deliberately misunderstands Henrik. He supposes it’s not that different from the times Roxanna tells him that he’s loved, people _care_ about him.

Henrik sighs.

Their kiss has ended too.

His gaze drifts lower on John's body. He’s become stiff again. Henrik smiles sadly. He has always admired his stamina and dedication. And a part of him _is_ content, seeing John clearly enjoying himself.

Henrik links his hands. His gaze returns to Roxanna. She’s staring at him. Her eyes show a certain focus, as if they’re in theater about to start a complicated procedure.

They stare and _stare,_ while John slowly drifts lower, nose tracing skin and mouth tasting her.

Henrik needs to look away. The intensity of her gaze peeling away the walls in his mind. He frowns, doesn't understand. Why is it directed at him and not at John?

He squeezes his hands, the pressure calming him.

As John kisses between her breasts and teases her stomach, Henrik lets his gaze stray to his arm, his back, the shape of his bottoms. How beautiful John is, always has been. Even in scrubs, _especially_ in scrubs. He can change the simplest, most trivial task into a form of art.

He positions himself between her legs, hands tracing her thighs, regards Roxanna for a moment and then lowers his head. She moans, rests a hand on his shoulder.

Minutes ago, John has only used his mouth too. Henrik subtly glances at his watch. A long time too, close to half an hour. John’s persistent.

John glances up, throws a long, smoldering look at Roxanna. The sight makes Henrik think of the times he’s returned from a run, satisfied and soaked in sweat. He stares at him in a strangely similar way. Henrik always makes sure to stay as far away from the bathroom, knowing that John isn't only taking a quick shower.

John raises a hand. Maintaining eye contact, he licks the fingertips of his second and third finger. He lowers his eyes and slowly slips inside her.

Roxanna groans. Henrik swallows loudly, blinks several times.

They slide out and then pushes in again. John used to be left handed, but soon after university used his right hand more and more. Henrik used the term ambidexterity  once. John only shrugged in response. 

To this day, this drastic change still baffles him. Sometimes, when John thinks he's alone, he changes back to his left hand. When he sketches, he uses his left hand.

Roxanna grabs his head, forces him closer to where she wants it. John obeys, licking and kissing as he slowly picks up his pace. She bends a pale knee, obscuring his view.

Henrik holds his breath, unsure if this respite is a good or bad thing.

John quickly catches on. Without pausing, he straightens her leg, keeps his hand just above her knee. Roxanna shoots an apologetic glance at Henrik.

He adjusts in his seat. Her face shines with pleasure. Normally, an aloof mask highlights her reserved nature, enhancing her attention to detail. He loves her colorful shirts as much as her floral perfume, custom made. She easily keeps up with his longer stride. During conversations, her unique view changes his opinion.

He counts the seconds, wonders if Roxanna comes sooner this time. Half an hour should be easy to beat.

She once caught him in the bathroom after a...release. How to explain? The words remained trapped in his throat: this is a biological response, he derives no pleasure from it, this changes nothing _._

Yet he was, no, _is_ still afraid this would change everything.

Roxanna stopped him, caught his hand – the same hand he used to perform this... _chore._ She didn't let go until he'd calmed down. She smiled afterwards, kissed him on the cheek. Her brightness and strength lifted his dark mood, chased away morose and frightening thoughts repeating themselves like a never ending, toxic mantra.

Roxanna sighs loudly, brings him back to the present. It’s the same sigh after she’s reached her climax. Before.

A part of him is disappointed that he’s missed that moment. He frowns, not knowing how to deal with this, and certainly not ready to explore this feeling.

Her grip on his shoulder slackens, her fingers inch towards the back his neck.

His hands ache from clutching each other. He exhales, forces his shoulders to relax, hopes his hands will follow.

Roxanna tugs at John. He plants a quick kiss on her inner thigh and meets her lips for a lazy kiss.

Henrik counts their breathing, almost as one. He reaches  _nine._ John leans back. He reaches  _ten._ Roxanna gasps when John wraps an arm around her and flips them over. 

The mattress shakes. She braces a hand against his stomach, frowning down at him.

He strokes himself once. A grin –  _that_ grin, one that promises mischief and trouble – is the only warning Roxanna and Henrik receive before he slides into her in one, smooth motion. 

She curses softly, her arm shaking. Henrik thinks he sees her mouthing  _John_ too. 

John pulls out but just as quickly thrusts in again. Her breath hitches. Might be an indicator of pain. Henrik tenses, ready to warn John: perhaps he should use protection, perhaps he should have waited a bit, perhaps he should have given Roxanna a sign first.

Perhaps he should stop.

She groans. John must have hit _that_ particular sensitive spot. He grips the armrests. This has gone too far.

Something stops him. Her lips have thinned in annoyance at this ambush, _yes_ , but she’s not angry. In fact, she adjusts her weight and straddles him properly. John slows down, like a car slowly rolling to a stop before a red light. She smiles in a way that says _trouble,_ and moves her hips, her hands running up and down his chest. She slowly works faster, catches his hand when he tries to slow her down. She leans over him, raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to try again.

Formidable, as always. Henrik smiles.

John growls, pulls himself up, pushing their bodies flush together.

Roxanna grabs the back of his neck as John readjusts himself. She squeezes, moans when the pace picks up. There will be evidence left for Henrik to see later. A bruise or scratching that will only fuel the rumors and whispers.

She turns her face to him. When their eyes meet, Henrik sees _lust_ overwhelming everything else. The intensity floors him. He swallows, wants to break eye contact. For once, he’s glad John isn’t looking at him. He hasn’t looked in his direction once since they’ve started...this.

John grabs her chin, forces her attention back to him. He kisses her roughly, swallowing her mewls as his next thrust hits her just that way. He lowers a hand, rubs circles as Roxanna slips a hand in his hair, tugs his head back. They stare at each other, move in tandem.

This time, she can’t keep quiet. John carefully stills, eyes unblinking, staring  up at her. 

_Henrik_ comes from her mouth and is impossible to deny.

He wants to capture this moment as much as he wants to look away. He blinks several times.

John guides her back on the mattress, one hand resting behind her head. If he isn't still inside her, this gesture will have warmed his heart. He gently sweeps away the stray hair matted against her forehead and observes her face carefully, seeming to be waiting for something.

After a moment – one minute, five minutes, more, who knows? – Roxanna nods. John tips his head and chooses a slow rhythm. She moves with him, like a silent, intricate dance that Henrik doesn't know the rules of.

John braces a hand on the mattress. His arm obscures her face. He frowns, slides his hand down and Henrik sees Roxanna again. As he pushes in, he throws a quick glance in his direction, his face unreadable except for the _focus._ Their eyes never meet.

John chooses a faster rhythm., staring back at her as if Roxanna is the only person that matters. She stares right back, fingers playing with his hair. Henrik _feels_ the heat even from his place in the armchair. He then hears a sound – a strangled whine or a groan or something else entirely, he's not sure.

His whole body tenses, muscles straining. John turns his face away, hiding from them. Roxanna closes her eyes, strokes his arm straining from the effort. They lay in silence.

His heart is beating too loud. He’s clutching the arm rests, not sure if he’s holding himself back or hoping the chair can provide him comfort.

She caresses his shoulder tenderly. Henrik must be missing something again – a cue, permission – but John doesn’t. He breaths out, falls half atop her. He leaves a trail of kisses from her neck to the end of her left collarbone and buries his face on her shoulder.

Roxanna wraps an arm around his middle. John closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

There it is again, feeling like an observer again, an outsider. But then Roxanna turns to him, and Henrik’s floored again by the warmth, the  _love_ he sees on her face. 

“And?” she asks, her smile turning into a smirk.

“It was...” Henrik's at a loss of words. How to explain that this is better than paperwork done _just_ right or a long, tricky surgery ending well? This is even better than dark chocolate slowly melting in his mouth.

Her smile softens. She understands. She always does.

“Good enough,” she answers for him, nodding solemnly, and then chuckles.

“You bet it was,” John murmurs, eyes still closed, snuggling closer to her.

“I hope you haven't got the wrong impression,” she jokes.

Henrik’s not sure if this is directed at him, or John. Possibly both.

John snorts.

Roxanna ignores him. “We’re not usually this...” She pauses, blushes.

Henrik nods, even if he doubts it. Despite his attempts not to catch them, the few times he  _ has _ stumbled across them,  the sight is never...tame.

“We can-” Roxanna smacks him lightly on the back of his head.

“ _I_ can do this every day,” John corrects.

A look passes between them.

Henrik shakes his head, but smiles. “I understand,” he says, even if he’s not sure he does.

“Well, that's good,” she says, patting John on the head. She strokes his hair in that particular way that he loves and returns his smile.

John opens his eyes, gaze immediately finding Henrik. Henrik frowns. He’s finally staring at him, but his expression is carefully blank. He glances away, feeling as if he’s fumbling in the darkness.

Roxanna takes pity on him. She holds out a hand, giving Henrik a way out. The softness on her face is hard to miss. So is the amusement lurking underneath it. Henrik nods again, stands slowly and brushes away imaginary dust from his sweater.

He reaches for her hand, traces her knuckles. Roxanna squeezes in reassurance before wiggling free from his grasp. Her smile turns mischievous – John is truly rubbing off on her. She puckers her lips and waits.

Henrik thinks of ducks and duck face. He disguises his chuckle as a sigh, leans in and allows her to kiss him on the cheek. Twice on the left. She tilts her head. He turns his face. Twice on the right.

“There,” she says, looking satisfied and happy and rests a careful hand on his shoulder. The twitching tells him that she longs to stroke his neck but knows that's a 'no zone'.

He tried to explain it once, struggling to find the right words. She listened intently, not a trace of mockery or amusement in the air. Afterwards, she kissed him, once on each cheek, and thanked him softly for trusting her. Then, he'd lost himself in her. Now, the same thing is happening again.

He doesn’t know how many seconds pass.

Henrik sighs, manages to glance away. John’s staring at him, his eyes shining with something unreadable. When he notices him, he glances past him, finds an invisible spot on the wall behind him and stares without blinking. Henrik frowns, knows from experience that this usually means John's mind is someplace dark, desolate and dangerous.

That won't do. Not at all.

He would sometimes wake up stiff. John knew not to interpret it as anything other than a purely biological response. But one time John rolled over, pinned him on the bed. The wild glint in his eyes paralyzed him as much as the hands sneaking under his pajamas. The direct skin on skin contact was too much, lacked the several layers of clothes that were  _ just  _ enough whenever John rested a hand on his arm, shoulder or back. Slightly chapped lips swallowed his protests as Henrik felt him – stiff and impatient – rubbing against his lower stomach. And then John grasped him for the first time. It felt wrong,  _ was _ wrong, but he couldn’t move, run away, say something. Blind panic seeped through his mind when John moved his hand up and down, down and up,  _ up and–  _

If not for Roxanna, woken up by the fuss, shoving John to the floor…

From that day on she and John swapped sleeping positions, despite how Roxanna hates to sleep in the middle. They’ve accommodated Henrik yet again.

Will it ever stop? How much until there’s nothing left for them to give, nothing left for Henrik to  _ take? _

His body moves before his mind has caught up. He leans over her. Keeping his eyes on John, he kisses the corner of his lips. John blinks, raises his brow. Henrik kisses him again, this time full on his mouth. To John, it must be too short, too chaste, too tame. To him, this will always feel strange. He'll never get used to this. His stomach turns and his mind shudders, but Henrik prides himself on not wincing.

He will surely regret this. Soon John will ambush him. Before he knows it, his tongue will be in his mouth, his stiff member pressed against him.

Roxanna squeezes his shoulder in reassurance.

John searches his face, as if he can't believe this has happened, and then smiles in a young and naive way.

He resists the urge to join them on the bed, forces himself to lean back and straighten his back.

“I'll be back in a moment,” he says. The excuse feels as weak to his ears as it is in his mind.

John's still staring at him as if he’s found God. Roxanna is stroking his hair, glancing at John in that disarming way of her.

They probably haven’t heard him.

He coughs quietly, once.

But then again, they know, are in tune with his habits. He doesn't _need_ to tell them that he'll prepare some refreshments – cheese cubes for Roxanna, biscuits for John. Perhaps he’ll even indulge himself, add a chunk of dark chocolate on the plate. Tea for all, before bed. He used to sum up the many health benefits. They always indulge him too.

Roxanna drinks in silence. John slurps loudly, frowns in his cup and always, _always_ tries and fails to switch his cup with Roxanna's when hers is almost empty.

A small smile lingers on his mouth as John drifts off to sleep. Roxanna kisses his crown and buries her nose in his hair.

Henrik stares at this beautiful sight. He doesn’t want to leave.

He's made a shoe rack for Roxanna but smaller shoes and boots in all sizes and colors keep appearing. At this rate, he’ll need to make another one soon. He’s still getting used to the dramatic changes in his weekly groceries. Truly, he cooks enough for five, yet oftentimes the dishes are scraped empty. Some days, he needs to blink several times, assure himself that Roxanna is in the passenger's seat, putting on the finishing touches of make up and John, a brooding presence forced to sit in the back.

It wasn't that long ago that he couldn't enter his own bedroom, let alone sleep in his bed. Every time he left the guest room to find a glass of water, he found light shining underneath the bedroom door, and heard muffled conversation. He was never the only one that couldn’t sleep.

Henrik glances at the dozing pair. He supposes this is progress. He supposes it's a good thing that he's forgotten to open the window. The heat, the air that is tinged with residues of their...activities aren’t suffocating him. When he comes back with refreshments, it won’t matter if they’re already asleep or not.

He will probably join them.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know anymore...RIP tube man.


End file.
